Chapter 17 Chapter Seventeen

Mrs. Oliver was so exhausted that she huddled herself in a corner of the theater dressing-room.As a celebrity, she is not someone who can hide from her. The more she hides, the more conspicuous she is.Young actors in high spirits, wiping the paint off their faces with towels, surrounded her, and some brought her mugs of warm beer. Mrs. Upward, in thoroughly improved spirits, parted them with her well wishes.Before leaving the house, Robin scrambled to get everything ready for her, making her as comfortable as possible, and ran home several times after getting into the car to make sure everything was perfect.

Finally, he grinned and returned to the car. "Mum just got off the phone and the old guy still won't tell me who she's calling. But I think I can guess." "I know that too," said Mrs. Oliver. "Oh, who did you say?" "Hercule Poirot." "Yeah, I guess it's him too. She's going to have a good talk with him. Mum does like having her little secret, doesn't she? Well, now, dear, let's talk about tonight's play. You're going to be honest and tell me you Thoughts on Cecil - does he meet your requirements for him to play Eric..."

Needless to say, Cecil Leach simply did not meet Mrs. Oliver's standards for Eric.Indeed, no one could be more unsuitable than him.She liked the play itself, but the order of the scenes was unacceptable. Robin certainly fits the bill.He was talking to Cecil (at least Mrs. Oliver supposed it was Cecil).Mrs. Oliver was already horrified by Cecil's acting.At this point, she is more fond of an actor named Michael who is talking to her.At least Michael didn't expect her to answer; in fact, Michael seemed to prefer talking endlessly.From time to time a man named Peter interjected into their conversation, but, on the whole, it was mainly Michael who spouted ironic vitriol:

"—Robin's so sweet," he was saying, "we've been urging him to come to the show. But, of course, he's totally submissive to that horrible woman, isn't he? Submissive, submissive. Robin was really good, don't you think? Pretty good. He didn't deserve to be sacrificed on the altar of matriarchy. Women are scary sometimes, don't you? You know how she treated poor Alex Roskoff's? Been so considerate to him for almost a year, and found out he wasn't a Russian immigrant at all. Of course, he's said some big things to her in the past, and boasted a bit about himself, but it's funny, we Knew it wasn't true, but why did it matter?—and then she left him when she found out he was just a little barber's son, my God. I mean Well, I do hate snobs like that, don't you hate them? Alex is really thankful for walking away from her and getting rid of her. He says she's scary sometimes--he thinks she's a little queer. She's irascible and furious! Robin, dear, we're talking about your lovely mother. It's a pity she can't come to the show tonight. But it's wonderful to have Mrs. Oliver here. And those A popular murder."

An older man grabbed Mrs. Oliver's hand, he held her hand tightly, and his voice was very low. "How should I thank you?" His low voice was full of melancholy. "You have saved my life—saved me more than once." Then they all came out of the dressing-room into the late-night street, breathing the fresh air, crossing the road to a tavern, where they drank some more and had more stage talk.By the time Mrs. Oliver and Robin were driving home, Mrs. Oliver was exhausted.She leaned back and closed her eyes.And Robin was still talking, talking non-stop. "—you do think it might be an idea, don't you?" she asked, as he ended.

"what?" Mrs. Oliver snapped her eyes open. She had just been immersed in a sweet dream of homesickness.Rare birds and exotic flowers adorn the walls.A pine-board table, her typewriter, espresso, apples everywhere... What a bliss, what a glory, what a quiet bliss!What a mistake it is for a writer to step out of her reclusive and secret realm into the public eye.Writers are shy, socially awkward people who make up for their lack of sociability by inventing their friends, companions, and conversations. "I'm afraid you're tired," said Robin. "It's not really tiring. The fact is that I'm not good at getting along with people."

"I like crowds, don't you?" said Robin cheerfully. "I don't like it," said Mrs. Oliver firmly. "But you have to like it. Look at all those characters in your book." "That's different. I think trees are also much better than people, and give me more peace." "I need people," Robin said, declaring the obvious. "They inspire me." He drove the car up to the door of Rabenhams. "You go in," he said, "I'll put the car away." Mrs. Oliver got out of the car with as much effort as usual, and went up the path.

"The gate is unlocked," Robin yelled. The door was not locked.Mrs. Oliver opened the door and went into the yard.There was no light, which made her think the hostess was rude.Perhaps this is done to save money?The rich are always so budget-conscious.There was a smell of perfume in the hall, like a very rare and expensive perfume.For a moment, Mrs. Oliver wondered if she had gone to the wrong room. Later, she fumbled for the switch and turned on the light. The light suddenly illuminated the low, square living room.The door to the living room was ajar, and she saw a foot and a leg.Mrs. Upward was not in bed yet.She must have fallen asleep in her wheelchair, since there were no lights on, she must have been asleep for a long time.

Mrs. Oliver went to the door and switched on the living room light. "We're back—" she started and then stopped. Her hand suddenly touched her throat, and she felt her throat was tightly bound, and she wanted to scream but couldn't. Her voice became a murmur: "Robin—Robin..." It was a moment before she heard him come up the path, whistling as he went, and then, turning quickly, she ran forward to meet him in the hall. "Don't go in there--don't go in there. Your mother--she--she's dead--I think--she was murdered..."